


For What It's Worth

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Healing, M/M, Reckless Behavior, Self-Destructive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:33:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the war Harry is still having trouble moving on.  His increasingly reckless behavior begins to land him in St. Mungos where his healer is Draco Malfoy.  Will the only one not trying to fix him be the only one who can?</p>
            </blockquote>





	For What It's Worth

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an anonymous headcannon sent to icanhelpyouthere on tumblr which said "I have this angsty headcanon that after many years after the war, Harry still can't cope with the pain and the guilt, so he becomes reckless and gets hurt all the time (or maybe he even hurts himself), and he goes to St. Mungo's every other day, and Draco is his Healer, but he doesn't say anything because he understands what Harry is going through. And eventually Harry starts going to St. Mungo's just to see Draco. And they end up helping each other with the pain. Or something like that. -C"
> 
> The lovely anon gave me permission to use her headcannon and I hope I've done it justice.

It’s a drizzly Tuesday in January when Harry finds himself in St. Mungos once again. The weather has been particularly abysmal lately and Harry thinks it matches his mood; all menacing clouds and gray sky but without much actual rain or thunder. Sort of like a storm that wants to rage and ravage but doesn’t know how. Pathetic. Useless. _Annoying_. 

  
He taps his fingers on the counter as he waits for the nurse to notice him. 

  
“Right, and what can I do you for today young man?” The nurse asks him, not even bothering to look up from the massive pile of paper work in front of her. 

  
“I just need to see a healer about a few broken fingers,” Harry answers honestly. And really its only two fingers, and it isn’t like he’d done it on purpose, so he still doesn’t understand why someone in the Auror department couldn’t just fix it for him. It isn't like most of them don't know basic healing spells after all.

  
He can still hear Kingsley’s voice drifting through his ears and he shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts …. _auror protocol, must be checked out by a licensed healer….reckless and dangerous pattern of behavio_ r. 

 

“Sorry, what?” Harry asks suddenly, realizing he hasn’t been listening and that the nurse is now intently staring at his scar.

  
“I said you can take that bed over there dear, the one closest to that wall. It’ll just be a bit before the healer on duty can see you and all our private rooms are already full so I’m afraid that’s all we can offer you right now. You don’t mind do you?” She asks and Harry frowns because he can see quite clearly that she expects him to mind and that bothers him for reasons he doesn’t feel like thinking about.

  
“No it’s fine. I don’t mind waiting. Thank you,” he tells her politely, silently adding an _“I don’t need my own bloody room for a few measly broken fingers.”_

  
After close to two hours Harry begins to think that the nurse in question might need a bit of a reality check if this is her definition of a few minutes. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if they’ve forgotten about him when he realizes that’s probably impossible.

 

“And what’re you in for Mr…..oh it’s you, Potter.”

  
Harry looks up just in time to see Draco Malfoy striding forward and pulling a rather garishly colored green curtain around his bed to shield them from the rest of the patients and staff. 

  
Harry stares at the man in front of him, taking in his pristine white robes and the badge hanging around his neck that reads “Healer Malfoy”. He notices the three different colored pens lined up neatly in the front pocket of his robe, the way his long fingers are curled around the edge of the chart he’s holding and the way his hair isn’t slicked back anymore but falls into his face making him look so much less severe yet for some reason Harry finds it all the more off putting.

  
He thinks he should be more surprised to see him but really it isn’t like he hadn’t already known Malfoy was a healer. It had been all over the Prophet months ago when he’d apparently been accepted to St. Mungos as a lead Healer. Not that Harry still kept tabs on Malfoy or anything.  It just been in the paper so of course he'd read it.  He thinks he maybe should’ve realized this would happen one day. He also wonders if he should feel awkward but quickly dismisses that thought. It’s not that they’re friends, not really, but they aren’t enemies anymore. The animosity had been buried years ago after  random meeting in a pub that happened to have included a whole lot of alcohol, some drunk confessions, a few whispered apologies and perhaps a few bloody knuckles too. They hadn’t talked much since that night but it hadn’t escaped Harry’s notice afterwards that whatever had happened between them had softened Malfoy somehow and he had been pleased to notice him looking freer somehow.

  
After several minutes pass Draco coughs loudly trying to get his attention. “Potter?”

  
“Just a few broken fingers. It’s not a big deal,” Harry mumbles, somehow feeling a bit embarrassed that Draco Malfoy of all people has to fix him up. 

  
Malfoy makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort and Harry is about to ask what exactly is amusing about his current predicament when Draco speaks. “Most people consider any broken bones quite a big deal you know. May I see the fingers in question?”

  
His tone is professional, and almost kind. Harry wonders briefly if he’s this nice to everyone now. He wonders if somehow the boy who wanted to break things became the boy who fixed them.

  
He waits a only a few seconds before shrugging and holding out his hand. He hisses and instinctively pulls back his hand when Draco attempts to manipulate the broken fingers. Malfoy doesn’t say anything though, just continues to check each finger before writing something down in his chart.

  
“So how did you manage to break them then?" 

  
Harry briefly entertains the idea of answering but decides against it and looks down at his hands instead.

  
"So lovely weather we’re having huh?” He finally says after a long minute of awkward silence passes.

  
“Potter that is the worst change of subject I have ever heard, and trust me I’ve heard a lot. Though coming from you I’m not surprised. You always did lack basic social graces.”

  
Harry frowns at him out of habit, feeling only about half as offended as he probably ought to be. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it realizing nothing he wants to say would matter much anyway.

  
“Right, fine you don’t have to tell me. As a healer I’m sworn to secrecy so I couldn’t tell anyone what you told me anyway, but more than that I _wouldn’t_ want to tell anyone, Potter. But if you don't want to tell me then it doesn't matter because I can fix you up just fine without knowing how you managed this.”

  
“Right…..good,” Harry responds and thinks he probably sounds a bit stupid, and rude. Unfortunately something about the alternative seems worse. 

 

  
**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

  
It’s only a few days later when Harry finds himself in St. Mungos yet again. Though this time on decidedly less casual circumstances.

  
When he blinks open his eyes the first thing he sees is Malfoy leaning over him looking more concerned than Harry had thought was possible.

 

“You’re awake, that’s good. Very good. Merlin, Potter, what exactly were you doing? You got doused with six different untested potions. You know it was a nightmare trying to figure out exactly what they were.  A less qualified healer might not have been able to fix you up as well as I did though I imagine you're going to feel quite groggy for the next few hours.  There was nothing I could do about that unfortunately.”

  
Malfoy look anxious. Harry wonders if Malfoy always babbles when he’s nervous. More than that though he wonders why he would nervous.

  
“So, gonna tell me why you didn’t have a potions expert on hand to ensure this didn’t happen?” Malfoy asks when Harry continues to stare at him without speaking.

  
“None of your business,” Harry whispers, not sure if he’s more embarrassed or angry at the implication that he put himself in a dangerous position unnecessarily. 

  
If Malfoy is offended by his behavior however he doesn’t show it. Instead he continues to cast several spells which Harry is too tired to pay attention to.

  
The last thing Harry hears before he falls asleep is Malfoy quietly saying “Try to be more careful next time.” He is too tired to wonder whether he was supposed to hear him or not.

 

 

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

  
It is the following Thursday when Harry finds himself once again sitting on the spare bed in the corner, kicking his legs back and forth restlessly. He finds it easier to stare at the sheets than to look up watching the healers and patients move about purposefully.  There is an odd, yellowed stain near the pillow and Harry pokes at it morosely wondering how it got there.  Harry looks up when he hears the sound of feet approaching.

  
“Why am I not surprised that it’s you?” Malfoy asks, no malice in his voice as he moves to pull up a stool so that he is sitting directly across from Harry.

  
Harry just shrugs. He notices Malfoy doesn’t push him to answer but after several minutes in which it becomes clear that Harry is in fact not actually going to speak to him, he finally begins to talk instead.

  
“You know adults are usually much easier than children to take care of because adults can tell you exactly what’s wrong. With kids we have to do a lot of tests and poking and prodding. It’s exceedingly time consuming. They can be quite difficult and stubborn when they want to be as well.”

  
“Are you comparing me to a child?” Harry’s finally asks, sounding just about as petulant as he feels.

  
“Just making small talk,” Draco answers calmly.  Harry thinks it looks like he is trying not to smile as he twirls one of his silver pens between his fingers. 

  
Harry isn’t the least bit fooled, and is definitely a bit offended, but he still reaches down to the hem of his jumper before lifting it slowly to reveal his stomach. Draco lets out a very quiet gasp before reaching out and running his fingers over a nasty looking purple bruise covering the entire right side of Harry’s ribs.

  
“So is there any point asking how you did this?”

  
“No.”

  
“Potter, listen-”

  
“No.”

 

"Right.  Ok."

  
Harry finds that he is both pleased and somehow disappointed that Draco lets it go so easily. He wonders if Draco has become a pushover or if perhaps, like so many others, he just no longer cares what Harry does or why. He tries to tell himself the idea doesn’t bother him either way but he knows it’s a lie.

  
It is less than twenty minutes later when Harry is able to leave with his apparently broken ribs mended and a rather effective soothing salve on his bruise, which is already almost completely gone. But as he watches Draco walking away from him he wonders why, if his wounds are mostly healed, he suddenly feels like he just got punched in the stomach all over again.

 

  
**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

  
It becomes a bit of a habit really, winding up in St. Mungos. Not that Harry would call it a habit because that would imply he was doing it on purpose and he’s not, he’s definitely not. 

  
Hermione calls it a bad habit. Ron calls it bad luck. Harry calls it _life_.

  
A few times a week he ends up here. Sometimes it’s nothing major; a few cuts and bruises that would heal quicker with magic, perhaps a broken bone or a poorly cast curse. Sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes Harry doesn’t want to remember why he ended up here.  Sometimes he isn't sure of a lot of things.

  
It’s just that Harry finds himself still caught up somewhere between living and dying that feels a lot like barely existing. It’s been years since the war and he sees the rest of the Wizarding World rebuilding. He sees people healing and moving on and _forgetting_. Except that he can’t forget; he can’t move on and he thinks that just might be his biggest failure.

  
When he thinks about it, which he does far more often than he would ever admit anyone, he thinks it feels a bit like a nagging feeling in the back of his mind every time he tries to move on reminding him of every time he failed, of everything he has lost and everything he doesn't know how to be. It isnt supposed to be like this. The end of war was supposed to feel like, well like an end. Instead it had felt more like someone ripping the band aid off a wound that wasn’t ready to heal.

  
And so if Harry takes all the most dangerous cases at work he figures it’s only right. He’s lived terror and fear before and he doesn’t see why some of the newer recruits need to know what it feels like to wonder if today might be the day they die.

 

And if he sometimes finds himself in muggle London picking fights he knows he can’t win, in which he doesn’t even fight back, he thinks maybe it’s like releasing sins by letting someone else punish him for something he isn’t sure he’s done but somehow feels responsible for. 

  
And if he sometimes acts recklessly he figures it doesn’t matter, not really. He’s survived worse and maybe it’s testing fate but he figures if Voldemort didn’t kill him then neither will this. Besides there is something comforting about the pain. Sometimes, when he’s hurting it feels like the war is happening all over again and he pretends it is; because it’s easier to remember that than to think about all the days and weeks and months when he didn’t hurt but still couldn’t smile.

  
He wants to move on and he wants to forget. Really he does. But mostly he wants people to stop watching him not because they they think he could save them but because they think he needs saving.

 

  
**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

  
"What the hell did you do to finally get a private room, Potter?“ Draco hasn’t looked at him yet, instead he seems to be reading something on Harry’s chart as he pushes the door open. Draco’s voice sounds smooth and clear; like his words have a purpose. Harry wonders what that feels like.

  
"It’s not that bad,” he says automatically making Malfoy look up sharply. It’s the same thing he’d said to a rather horrified Ron and Hermione earlier that evening when they’d found him sitting in his living room. 

  
He can tell from the look on Malfoy's face that he is horrified.  He hasn't bothered to look at himself in a mirror but if people keep looking at him the way Malfoy is right now then he thinks it must look as bad it feels.

  
“What the hell happened, Potter?”

 

Harry can tell he’s trying to look unaffected but the shock on his face is as easy to spot as the lie Harry knows he will tell. 

  
“Nothing,” he says. He says that a lot. Somehow the more he says nothing the truer it begins to feel. He hadn’t minded saying it to Ron and Hermione. He hadn’t liked when Hermione had started crying, or when Ron had been stoically quiet. But he hadn’t felt bad telling them nothing because it had felt at least a little bit like the truth.

  
He can’t help but wonder why the lie taste so bitter now, how he can lie so much easier to everyone else, even to himself, but not to Draco Malfoy.

  
“Well you look like shit.”

  
Harry cracks a smile and laughs softly at that, pleased that he isn’t pitying him or asking questions Harry does not want to answer.

  
“Oh so that’s it is it? Insult you and get a reaction but be nice and you ignore me. Wonderful, Potter.  Your brain must be as addled as your face.”

  
Again the words sound harsh, but his voice is gentle. He pulls up his trusty stool and sits across from Harry whispering a few spells that sound familiar. Harry doesn’t pay much attention to his words though, instead he watches the other mans graceful wrist movements as he slowly begins to heal the cuts and bruises on his face and hands. 

  
“Good as new, or almost,” he tells him after casting so many healing spells on Harry’s face his skin feels a bit funny. “Unfortunately there’s still no spell for that hair of yours.”

  
“Thank you,” Harry replies, looking Malfoy in the eye for the first time that day. But he has to look down quickly, unable to handle the kind of honestly he sees reflected back at him. 

  
He moves to stand up, but startles when Malfoy reaches out and gently places a hand on his arm. It’s there only a few seconds but his skin nearly burns at the contact. 

  
“If you ever want to talk you know where to find me.” The words are still ringing in Harry’s ear when he hears the door click shut. He is eternally grateful that Malfoy doesn’t wait for an answer because for once he isn’t sure what he would say.

  
That night when he goes home his house seems particularly empty.   He rummages in his cupboards awhile and manages to scrape together a measly dinner of stale crisps and a cheese toasty. By the time he remembers the cup of tea he’d made earlier it’s gone cold, but he drinks it anyway not even bothering with a warming charm. 

 

 

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

  
The next few months pass in a bit of blur. If anything Harry’s trips to St. Mungos seem to be rapidly increasing instead of decreasing. A fact which unfortunately doesn’t escape his friends notice. Though despite their best intentions, and a lot of nagging, nothing anyone says to him seems to make much of a difference one way or another. 

  
Once a week trips have turned into a several times a week; stepping in front of a curse meant for someone else, picking a fight with an obnoxious drunk muggle who’d been harassing his girlfriend, crashing his broomstick after a particularly risky move during a thunderstorm, ignoring protocol and advancing on a dangerous suspect without backup, or just plain stupidity when apparating slightly inebriated.

  
Through it all the only person who hasn’t chastised him is Draco. Which Harry thinks is rather ironic because if anyone should be annoyed at Harry for getting hurt repeatedly it should be him since he’s the one who has to keep fixing him back up.

  
He has never tried to push Harry though.  Not even once.  In the beginning it had been nothing but basic medical questions and then long minutes of drawn out silence as Draco would heal him. Until one day when Draco had been attempting to heal a particularly painful and large gash on his chest from a well cast curse and had suddenly begun to talk to Harry, and then he’d never stopped. 

  
He talked about the weather, about hospital politics, about the Prophet, about the war, about almost everything.  Harry is pretty sure that he now knows far too much about the other healers and nurses private lives, a fair bit too much about some of Dracos crazier patients (without names of course) and yet when he thinks about it long enough he realizes he doesn’t know nearly enough about _him_.

 

The realization that startles him even more however, is when he begins to realize that the only person not pushing him is the only one he wants to.

  
By the time April rolls around Harry has lost count of the number of times he’s been in the hospital. He knows he should feel angry or embarrassed or even remorseful about it. Yet these moments with Malfoy have begun to feel like the only part of his life that make sense. 

  
“You know Potter, if you’re going to make this a regular thing you should at least start bringing me tea," Draco says one day, as he applies a bandage to Harry's wrist.

  
Harry manages a full smile at that. He knows Draco is joking, making light of how often Harry ends up in here, but there is something genuine about it too that catches him off guard.  There is something about it that feels like permission, though for what exactly Harry isn't quite sure.

  
“Maybe I will, _Draco_ ” he says and this time it is Draco who smiles.

 

  
**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

  
It’s a cold day in May the next time Harry finds himself at St. Mungos. It has been 3 weeks, five days and twelve hours since he has laid eyes on Draco Malfoy.  The air is biting cold but the sun is peeking through the clouds as if to remind him that the light still shines even in the darkness.

   
“Harry, are you ok? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” Draco's voice sounds strained as he enters the room, and for the first time Harry thinks he doesn’t sound so sure of himself.  

  
“I brought you tea,” Harry says, suddenly nervous.

  
“Tea?”

  
“Yeah I brought you tea. The proper kind, plenty strong, with lots of sugar.” Harry holds it out to him hoping he doesn’t notice the way Harry’s hand is shaking.

  
“I see. And what did you do to land yourself here this time?”

  
“Nothing. Just….tea. Just tea. I convinced the nurse to let me wait in here for you actually” Harry admits, his nerve faltering just a bit but he squares his shoulders and forces himself to look Draco in the eyes and face the questions he knows he’ll see there. “I’d like to talk now. I’m ready,” he says hoping his voice sounds stronger than he feels.

  
Thankfully Draco doesn’t leave him waiting too long as he steps forward and reaches out taking the tea from Harry’s hand and setting it on the table next to him, before pulling Harry into a hug that should be awkward but instead feels like coming home.

  
And as they stand there embracing, with so much still left unsaid and so much still unknown Harry knows for the first time that it will be ok. For the first time Harry realizes that the comfort is no longer in the pain but in the healing. 


End file.
